Atherstone was a rambling, old-fashioned, black-and-white house, half
covered with ivy, standing in a rambling, old-fashioned garden--a
charming garden, with clipped yews, and grass paths, and straggling
flowers and herbs growing up in unexpected places. In front of the
house, facing the drawing-room windows, was a bowling-green, across
which, at this time of the afternoon, the house had laid a cool green
shadow.
Two ladies were sitting under its shelter, each with her work.
It was hot still, but the shadows were deepening and lengthening. Away
in the sun hay was being made and carried, with crackings of whips and
distant voices. Beyond the hay-fields lay the silver band of the river,
and beyond again the spire of Slumberleigh Church, and a glimpse among
the trees of Slumberleigh Hall.
"Ralph has started in the dog-cart to meet Charles. They ought to be
here in half an hour, if the train is punctual," said Mrs. Ralph.
She was a graceful woman, with a placid, gentle face. She might be
thirty, but she looked younger. With her pleasant home and her pleasant
husband, and her child to be mildly anxious about, she might well look
young. She looked particularly so now as she sat in her fresh cotton
draperies, winding wool with cool, white hands.
The handiwork of some women has a hard, masculine look. If they sew, it
is with thick cotton in some coarse material; if they knit, it is with
cricket-balls of wool, which they manipulate into wiry stockings and
comforters. Evelyn's wools, on the contrary, were always soft, fleecy,
liable to weak-minded tangles, and so turning, after long periods of
time, into little feminine futilities for which it was difficult to
divine any possible use.
Lady Mary Cunningham, her husband's aunt, made no immediate reply to her
small remark. Evelyn Danvers was not a little afraid of that lady, and,
in truth, Lady Mary, with her thin face and commanding manner, was a
very imposing person. Though past seventy, she sat erect in her chair,
her stick by her side, some elaborate embroidery in her delicate old
ringed hands. Her pale, colorless eyes were as keen as ever. Her white
hair was covered by a wonderful lace cap, which no one had ever
succeeded in imitating, that fell in soft lappets and graceful folds
round the severe, dignified face. Molly, Evelyn's little daughter, stood
in great awe of Lady Mary, who had such a splendid stick with a silver
crook of her very own, and who made remarks in French in Molly's
presence which that young lady could not understand, and felt that it
was not intended she should. She even regarded with a certain veneration
the cap itself, which she had once met in equivocal circumstances,
journeying with a plait of white hair towards Lady Mary's rooms.
It was the first time since their marriage, of which she had not
approved, that Lady Mary had paid a visit to Ralph and Evelyn at
Atherstone. Lady Mary had tried to marry Ralph, in days gone by, to a
woman who--but it was an old story and better forgotten. Ralph had
married his first cousin when he had married Evelyn, and Lady Mary had
strenuously objected to the match, and had even gone so far as to
threaten to alter certain clauses in her will, which she had made in
favor of Ralph, her younger nephew, at a time when she was at daggers
drawn with her eldest nephew, Charles, now Sir Charles Danvers. But that
was an old story, too, and better forgotten.
When Charles succeeded his father some three years ago, and when, after
eight years, Molly had still remained an only child, and one of the
wrong kind, of no intrinsic value to the family, Lady Mary decided that
by-gones should be by-gones, and became formally reconciled to Charles,
with whom she had already found it exceedingly inconvenient, and
consequently unchristian, not to be on speaking terms. As long as he was
the scapegrace son of Sir George Danvers her Christian principles
remained in abeyance; but when he suddenly succeeded to the baronetcy
and Stoke Moreton, the air of which suited her so well, and, moreover,
to that convenient _pied à terre_, the house in Belgrave Square, she
allowed feelings, which she said she had hitherto repressed with
difficulty, their full scope, expressed a Christian hope that, now that
he had come to this estate, Charles would put away Bohemian things, and
instantly set to work to find a suitable wife for him.
At first Lady Mary felt that the task which she had imposed upon herself
would (D.V.) be light indeed. Charles received her overtures with the
same courteous demeanor which had been the chief sting of their former
warfare. He paid his creditors, no one knew how, for his father had left
nothing to him unentailed; and once out of money difficulties, he seemed
in no hurry to plunge into them again. If he had not as yet thoroughly
taken up the life of an English country gentleman, for want of that
necessary adjunct which Lady Mary was so anxious to supply, at least he
lived in England and in good society. In short, Lady Mary was fond of
telling her friends Charles had entirely reformed, hinting, at the same
time, that she had been the humble instrument, in the hands of an
all-wise Providence, which had turned him back into the way in which the
English aristocracy should walk, and from which he had deviated so long.
But one thing remained--to marry him. Every one said Charles _must_
marry. Lady Mary did not say it, but with her whole soul she meant it.
What she intended to do, she, as a rule, performed--occasionally at the
expense of those who were little able to afford it, but still the thing
was (always, of course, by the co-operation of Providence) done. Ralph
certainly had proved an exception to the rule. He had married Evelyn
against Lady Mary's will, and consequently without the blessing of
Providence. After that, of course, she had never expected there would be
a son, and with each year her anxiety to see Charles safely married had
increased. He had seemed so amenable that at first she could hardly
believe that the steed which she had led to waters of such divers merit
would refuse to drink from any of them. If rank had no charm for him,
which apparently it had not, she would try beauty. When beauty failed,
even beauty with money in its hand, Lady Mary hesitated, and then fell
back on goodness. But either the goodness was not good enough, or, as
Lady Mary feared, it was not sufficiently High Church to be really
genuine: even goodness failed. For three years she had strained every
nerve, and at the end of them she was no nearer the object in view than
when she began.
An inconvenient death of a sister, with whom she had long since
quarrelled about church matters (and who had now gone where her folly in
differing from Lady Mary would be fully, if painfully, brought home to
her), had prevented Lady Mary continuing her designs this year in
London. But if thwarted in one direction, she knew how to throw her
energies into another. The first words she uttered indicated what that
direction was.
Evelyn's little remark about the dog-cart, which had gone to meet
Charles, had so long remained without any response that she was about to
coin another of the same stamp, when Lady Mary suddenly said, with a
decision that was intended to carry conviction to the heart of her
companion:
"It is an exceedingly suitable thing."
Evelyn evidently understood what it was that was so suitable, but she
made no reply.
"A few years ago," continued Lady Mary, "I should have looked higher. I
should have thought Charles might have done better, but--"
"He never could do better than--than--" said Evelyn, with a little mild
flutter. "There is no one in the world more--"
"Yes, yes, my dear--of course we all know that," returned the elder
lady. "She is much too good for him, and all the rest of it. A few years
ago, I was saying, I might not have regarded it quite in the light I do
now. Charles, with his distinguished appearance and his position, might
have married anybody. But time passes, and I am becoming seriously
anxious about him; I am, indeed. He is eight-and-thirty. In two years he
will be forty; and at forty you never know what a man may not do. It is
a critical age, even when they are married. Until he is forty, a man may
be led under Providence into forming a connection with a woman of
suitable age and family. After that age he will never look at any girl
out of her teens, and either perpetrates a folly or does not marry at
all. If the Danvers family is not to become extinct, or to be dragged
down by a _mésalliance_, measures must be taken at once."
Evelyn winced at the allusion to the extinction of the Danvers family,
of which Charles and Ralph were the only representatives. She felt
keenly having failed to give Ralph a son, and the sudden smart of the
old hurt added a touch of sharpness to her usually gentle voice as she
said, "I cannot see what _has_ been left undone."
"No, my dear," said Lady Mary, more suavely, "you have fallen in with my
views most sensibly. I only hope Ralph--"
"Ralph knows nothing about it."
"Quite right. It is very much better he should not. Men never can be
made to look at things in their proper light. They have no power of
seeing an inch in front of them. Even Charles, who is less dense than
most men, has never been allowed to form an idea of the plans which from
time to time I have made for him. Nothing sets a man more against a
marriage than the idea that it has been put in his way. They like to
think it is all their own doing, and that the whole universe will be
taken by surprise when the engagement is given out. Charles is no
exception to the rule. Our duty is to provide a wife for him, and then
allow him to think his own extraordinary cleverness found her for
himself. How old is this cousin of yours, Miss Deyncourt?"
"About three-and-twenty."
"Exceedingly suitable. Young, and yet not too young. She is not
beautiful, but she is decidedly handsome, and very high-bred-looking,
which is better than beauty. I know all about her family; good blood on
both sides; no worsted thread. I forget if there is any money."
This was a pious fraud on Lady Mary's part, as she was, of course, aware
of the exact sum.
"Lady Deyncourt left her thirty thousand pounds," said Evelyn,
unwillingly. She hated herself for the part she was taking in her aunt's
plans, although she had been so unable to support her feeble opposition
by any show of reason that it had long since melted away before the
consuming fire of Lady Mary's determined authority.
"Twelve hundred a year," said that lady. "I fear Lady Deyncourt was far,
very far, from the truth, but she seems to have made an equitable will.
I am glad Miss Deyncourt is not entirely without means; and she has
probably something of her own as well. The more I see of that girl the
more convinced I am that she is the very wife for Charles. There is no
objection to the match in any way, unless it lies in that disreputable
brother, who seems to have entirely disappeared. Now, Evelyn, mark my
words. You invited her here at my wish, after I saw her with that
dreadful Alwynn woman at the flower-show. You will never regret it. I am
seventy-five years of age, and I have seen something of men and women.
Those two will suit."
"Here comes the dog-cart," said Evelyn, with evident relief.
"Where is Miss Deyncourt?"
"She went off to Slumberleigh some time ago. She said she was going to
the rectory, I believe."
"It is just as well. Ah! here is Charles."
A tall, distinguished-looking man in a light overcoat came slowly round
the corner of the house as she spoke, and joined them on the lawn.
Evelyn went to meet him with, evident affection, which met with as
evident a return, and he then exchanged a more formal greeting with his
aunt.
"Come and sit down here," said Evelyn, pulling forward a garden-chair.
"How hot and tired you look!"
"I am tired to death, Evelyn. I went to London in May a comparatively
young man. Aunt Mary said I ought to go, and so, of course, I went. I
have come back not only sadder and wiser--that I would try to bear--but
visibly aged."
He took off his hat as he spoke, and wearily pushed back the hair from
his forehead. Lady Mary looked at him over her spectacles with grave
scrutiny. She had not seen her nephew for many months, and she was not
pleased with what she saw. His face looked thin and worn, and she even
feared she could detect a gray hair or two in the light hair and
mustache. His tired, sarcastic eyes met hers.
"I was afraid you would think I had _gone off_," he said, half shutting
his eyes in the manner habitual to him. "I fear I took your exhortations
too much to heart, and overworked myself in the good cause."
"A season is always an exhausting thing," said Lady Mary; "and I dare
say London is very hot now."
"Hot! It's more than hot. It is a solemn warning to evil-doers; a
foretaste of a future state."
"I suppose everybody has left town by this time?" continued Lady Mary,
who often found it necessary even now to ignore parts of her nephew's
conversation.
"By everybody I know you mean _one_ family. Yes, they are gone. Left
London to-day. Consequently, I also conveyed my remains out of town,
feeling that I had done my duty."
"Where is Ralph?" asked Evelyn, rising, dimly conscious that Charles and
his aunt were conversing in an unknown tongue, and feeling herself _de
trop_.
"I left him in the shrubbery. A stoat crossed the road before the
horse's nose as we drove up, and Ralph, who seems to have been specially
invented by Providence for the destruction of small vermin, was in
attendance on it in a moment. I had seen something of the kind before,
so I came on."
Evelyn laid down her work, and went across the lawn, and round the
corner of the house, in the direction of the shrubbery, from which the
voice of her lord and master "rose in snatches," as he plunged in and
out among the laurels.
"And how is Lord Hope-Acton?" continued Lady Mary, with an air of
elaborate unconcern. "I used to know him in old days as one of the best
waltzers in London. I remember him very slim and elegant-looking; but I
suppose he is quite elderly now, and has lost his figure? or so some one
was saying."
"Not lost, but gone before, I should say, to judge by appearances," said
Charles, meditatively, gazing up into the blue of the summer sky.
The mixed impiety and indelicacy of her nephew's remark caused a sudden
twitch to the High Church embroidery in Lady Mary's hand; but she went
on a moment later in her usual tone:
"And Lady Hope-Acton. Is she in stronger health?"
"I believe she was fairly well; not robust, you know, but, like other
fond mothers with daughters out, 'faint yet pursuing.'"
Lady Mary bit her lip; but long experience had taught her that it was
wiser to refrain from reproof, even when it was so urgently needed.
"And their daughter, Lady Grace. How beautiful she is! Was she looking
as lovely as usual?"
"More so," replied Charles, with conviction. "Her nose is even
straighter, her eyelashes even longer than they were last summer. I do
not hesitate to say that her complexion is--all that her fancy paints
it."
"You are so fond of joking, Charles, that I don't know when you are
serious. And you saw a good deal of her?"
"Of course I did. I leaned on the railings in the Row, and watched her
riding with Lord Hope-Acton, whose personal appearance you feel such an
interest in. At the meeting of the four-in-hands, was not she on the
box-seat beside me? At Henley, were we not in the same boat? At
Hurlingham, did we not watch polo together, and together drink our tea?
At Lord's, did not I tear her new muslin garment in helping her up one
of those poultry-ladders on the Torringtons' drag? Have I not taken her
in to dinner five several times? Have I not danced with her at balls
innumerable? Have I not, in fact, seen as much of her as--of several
others?"
"Oh, Charles!" said Lady Mary, "I wish you would talk seriously for one
moment, and not in that light way. Have you spoken?"
"In a light way, I should say I had spoken a good deal; but _seriously_,
no. I have never ventured to be serious."
"But you will be. After all this, you _will_ ask her?"
"Aunt Mary," replied Charles, with gentle reproach, "a certain delicacy
should be observed in probing the exact state of a man's young
affections. At five-and-thirty (I know I am five-and-thirty, because you
have told people so for the last three years) there exists a certain
reticence in the youthful heart which declines to lay bare its inmost
feelings even for an aunt to--we won't say peck at, but speculate upon.
I have told you all I know. I have done what I was bidden to do, up to a
certain point. I am now here to recruit, and restore my wasted energies,
and possibly to heal (observe, I say possibly) my wounded affections in
the intimacy of my family circle. That reminds me that that little
ungrateful imp Molly has not yet made the slightest demonstration of joy
at my arrival. Where is she?" and without waiting for an answer, which
he was well aware would not be forthcoming, Charles rose and strolled
towards the house with his hands behind his back.
"Molly!" he called, "Molly!" standing bareheaded in the sunshine, under
a certain latticed window, the iron bars of which suggested a nursery
within.
There was a sudden answering cackle of delight, and a little brown head
was thrust out amid the ivy.
"Come down this very moment, you little hard-hearted person, and embrace
your old uncle."
"I'm comin', Uncle Charles, I'm comin';" and the brown head disappeared,
and a few seconds later a white frock and two slim black legs rushed
round the corner, and Molly precipitated herself against the waistcoat
of "Uncle Charles."
"What do you mean by not coming down and paying your respects sooner?"
he said, when the first enthusiasm of his reception was over, looking
down at Molly with a great kindness in the keen light eyes which had
looked so apathetic and sarcastic a moment before.
As he spoke, Ralph Danvers, a square, ruddy man in gray knickerbockers,
came triumphantly round from the shrubbery, holding by its tail a minute
corpse with out-stretched arms and legs.
"Got him!" he said, smiling, and wiping his brow with honest pride.
"See, Charles? See, Molly? Got him!"
"Don't bring it here, Ralph, please. We are going to have tea," came
Evelyn's gentle voice from the lawn; and Ralph and the terrier Vic
retired to hang the body of the slain upon a fir-tree on the back
premises, the recognized long home of stoats and weasels at Atherstone.
Molly, in the presence of Lady Mary and the stick with the silver crook,
was always more or less depressed and shy. She felt the pale cold eye of
that lady was upon her, as indeed it generally was, if she moved or
spoke. She did not therefore join in the conversation as freely as was
her wont in the family circle, but sat on the grass by her uncle,
watching him with adoring eyes, trying to work the signet ring off his
big little finger, which in the memory of man--of Molly, I mean--had
never been known to work off, while she gave him the benefit of small
pieces of local and personal news in a half whisper from time to time as
they occurred to her.
"Cousin Ruth is staying here, Uncle Charles."
"Indeed," said Charles, absently.
His eyes had wandered to Evelyn taking Ralph his cup of tea, and giving
him a look with it which he returned--the quiet, grave look of mutual
confidence which sometimes passes between married people, and which for
the moment makes the single state seem very single indeed.
Molly saw that he had not heard, and that she must try some more
exciting topic in order to rivet his attention.
"There was a mouse at prayers yesterday, Uncle Charles."
"There _wasn't_?"
Uncle Charles was attending again now.
Molly gave an exact account of the great event, and of how "Nanny" had
gathered her skirts round her, and how James had laughed, only father
did not see him, and how--There was a great deal more, and the story
ended tragically for the mouse, whose final demise under a shovel, when
prayers were over, Molly described in graphic detail.
"And how are the guinea-pigs?" asked Charles, putting down his cup.
"Come and see them," whispered Molly, insinuating her small hand
delightedly into his big one; and they went off together, each happy in
the society of the other. Charles was introduced to the guinea-pigs,
which had multiplied exceedingly since he had presented them, the one
named after him being even then engaged in rearing a large family.
Then, after Molly had copiously watered her garden, and Charles's
unsuspecting boots at the same time, objects of interest still remained
to be seen and admired; confidences had to be exchanged; inner pockets
in Charles's waistcoat to be explored; and it was not till the
dressing-bell and the shrill voice of "Nanny" from an upper window
recalled them, that the friends returned towards the house.
As they turned to go in-doors Charles saw a tall white figure skimming
across the stretches of low sunshine and long shadow in the field beyond
the garden, and making swiftly for the garden gate.
"Oh, Molly! Molly!" he said, in a tone of sudden consternation,
squeezing the little brown hand in his. "_Who_ is that?"
Molly looked at him astonished. A moment ago Uncle Charles had been
talking merrily, and now he looked quite sad.
"It's only Ruth," she said, reassuringly.
"Who is Ruth?"
"Cousin Ruth," replied Molly. "I told you she was here."
"She's not _staying_ here?"
"Yes, she is. She is rather nice, only she says the guinea-pigs smell
nasty, which isn't true. She _will_ be late,"--with evident concern--"if
she is going to be laced up; and I know she is, because I saw it on her
bed. She doesn't see us yet. Let us go and meet her."
"Run along, then," said Charles, in a lone of deep dejection, loosing
Molly's hand. "I think I'll go in-doors."